So he rang old Joe, who had for forty years been Bruno’s predecessor as chief of police of St Denis. Now he spent his time visiting cronies in all the local markets, using as an excuse the occasional sale from a small stock of oversized aprons and work coats that he kept in the back of his van. There was less selling done than meeting for the ritual glass, a petit rouge, but Joe had been a useful rugby player two generations ago and was still a pillar of the local club. He wore in his lapel the little red button that labelled him a member of the Lйgion d’Honneur, a reward for his boyhood service as a messenger in the real Resistance against the Germans. Bruno felt sure that Joe would know about the tyre-slashing, and had probably helped organise it. Joe knew everyone in the district, and was related to half of them, including most of St Denis’s current crop of burly rugby forwards who were the terror of the local rugby league.

‘Look, Joe,’ Bruno began when the old man answered with his usual gruff bark, ‘everything is fine with the inspectors. The market is clean and we know who they are. We don’t want any trouble this time. It could make matters worse, you understand me?’

‘You mean the car that’s parked in front of the bank? The silver Laguna?’ Joe said, in a deep and rasping voice that came from decades of Gauloises and the rough wine he made himself. ‘Well, it’s being taken care of. Don’t you worry yourself, petit Bruno. The Gestapo can walk home today. Like last time.’

‘Joe, this is going to get people into trouble,’ Bruno said urgently, although he knew that he might as well argue with a brick wall. How the devil did Joe know about this already? He must have been in Ivan’s cafй when Jeanne was showing the photos around. And he had probably heard about the car from Marie-Hйlиne in the bank, since she was married to his nephew.

‘This could bring real trouble for us if we’re not careful,’ Bruno went on. ‘So don’t do anything that would force me to take action.’